


01/24/2018

by fucking_milkovich, orange_army_boy



Series: • IAN + MICKEY • [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Childhood Memories, Domestic, Domestic Violence, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Past Domestic Violence, Racist Language, Roleplay, Sibling Bonding, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 22:47:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15423333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fucking_milkovich/pseuds/fucking_milkovich, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_army_boy/pseuds/orange_army_boy
Summary: Mandy recounts a favorite story about Mickey. Mickey remembers it being a little bit different.A snapshot from the Instagram accounts of@orange.army.boyand@fucking.milkovich





	01/24/2018

**Author's Note:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/163025614@N07/43623708891/in/dateposted-public/)   
> 

“Jesus fucking Christ! Alright, alright I’m coming! What the fuck…”

Mickey stumbled around the dark bedroom, bleary eyed and cussing viciously as he drew together the strings on the pair of sweats he had grabbed blindly from the floor just seconds earlier. They hung comically low in the crotch and bunched absurdly around his ankles.

 _Ian’s_.  

But the relentless pounding on the front door continued and Mickey couldn’t be bothered to change now. He stepped gingerly from the bedroom he shared with his giraffe of a boyfriend – fuck, _fiancé_ – and tried not to break his neck on the idiot’s stupidly long pants as he stalked down the hall. He squinted against the bright light coming in from the kitchen window to check the time on the microwave as he passed.

**9:01**

_Someone’s about to fucking die_.

Mickey felt his rage reaching its boiling point as he considered the hours of sleep he’d just lost to this early morning interloper. Ian was finishing off the last in a long string of doubles he’d agreed to cover that week ( _fucking Randy_ ) and Mickey could admit – at least to himself – that he was feeling the negative effects of having to go to bed most nights alone. Ian wasn’t due to be home that day until at least noon, and Mickey had had every intention of sleeping in till then or, if nothing else, of spending a lazy morning in bed getting himself good and prepped  to save time and effort on Ian’s part when he finally crawled in under the sheets next to him.

Ian was always fucking beat when he finished a double, but not seeing each other, not being able to _touch_ one another for extended periods of time (by their own definition, at least), always made for very hot and very frenzied bedroom – kitchen/couch/bathroom/hallway – reunions. All tongues and teeth and fumbling hands and gripping fingers. There was always an unspoken urgency to feel each other and get each other off as quickly as possible. It became a race to satiate their need for one another, and when that finish line was inevitably crossed, Ian was able to go right to sleep, happy and fulfilled, and Mickey could go on with his day, satisfied knowing that everything in his small little world was once again right and as it should be.

And now this _asshole_ was banging on the door as if the fucking world outside it was burning, and all Mickey could think as he fought furiously with the deadbolt was that of course today – _this day_ – would be when all his perfectly laid plans went to utter shit before he’d even been awake long enough to take his morning dump.

Mickey finally threw open the door, fists clenched and ready to pummel whoever greeted him on the other side, but was stopped short by the small blond, bundled up blur flinging itself at his legs with the sort of fierceness that only a child could get away with; the sort of aggression that is all love – innocent, unconditional, trusting – that attacks you with that love whether you deserve it or not ( _you don’t_ ), fucking floods you with it whether you want it or not ( _god, you do_ ), which completely overwhelms your every sense until there’s nothing left but to just accept it  and let it soak through to your core ( _like fuck if you don’t need it_ ).

Mickey felt small fingers latching almost painfully around the backs of his knees and in an instant the anger he was feeling just moments before slipped away, like a tornado that loses its legs before ever touching down.

“Hey Monkey,” Mickey laughed, fists uncurling to tousle his son’s hair. “The heck you doin’ here?”

“Yevvy wanted to see you before I dropped him back at Svet’s,” Mandy supplied, appearing in the doorway and shouldering her way through, slowing just enough to punch Mickey none too lightly on the shoulder as she passed. “Morning assface.”

Mickey closed the door that she’d left wide open behind her and scowled after his sister as she shrugged out of her heavy winter coat and sauntered straight over to the fridge like she owned the fucking place.

“Sure, bitch. Just make yourself at home. Jesus,” Mickey grouched, stooping down to swing Yev up into his arms and follow Mandy into the kitchen.

“Aww, poor Mickey, did we interrupt your beauty sleep?” she mocked, taking in his pillow creased cheek and the disheveled state of his unwashed hair. “God knows you fucking need it.” Mandy shot him her signature smirk before yanking open the fridge and bending low to root around the bottom shelf. “He insisted,” she continued, her voice now somewhat muffled, “so you can take that look you’re giving me and fucking shove it.”

Mickey softened his gaze and turned to Yevgeny, bouncing him in his arms to make the young boy smile wide. “That true, Monkey? You wanted to come see your old man, huh?”

“Yeah!” he shouted, happily slapping the palms of his small hands against Mickey’s bare chest. Then after a brief pause, “and Auntie M had no _khlop’ya_.”

Mandy whipped her head out of the fridge. “Yevvy! Secrets!” she said with a pointed stare that just caused the boy to giggle, tiny fists coming up to cover his mouth.

Mickey’s eyebrows shot high up his forehead as he regarded the two guilty co-conspirators who had apparently planned this hostile takeover of his kitchen. “Oh I see how it is. So this is nothing more than a fucking shakedown, huh?” Then without warning he dropped his head to blow wet raspberries on his son’s neck until Yev was squealing with laughter and begging to be put down.

“So why you got the kid in the first place?” Mickey asked, watching as Yevgeny ran around the side of the fridge to play with the brightly colored alphabet magnets that had been a second hand gift from Fiona.

Once she had learned that Yev would be spending more time with him and Ian at their new place, the redhead had started coming home from visits with his siblings laden down with bundles of old clothes and toys that everyone had already outgrown. Each time this happened Mickey made the same backhanded comment about Fiona just trying to clean up the cluttered shithole on Wallace and wanting to pawn off the old junk on them, but really it was just a cover-up. Those lettered magnets, along with the rubber ducks that lined the edge of their tub, the Legos that littered the floor – even the lightly tattered and extremely faded Cubs shirt that Mickey had on good authority had once been Ian’s – all of these things only amplified the clench in Mickey’s heart that beat to the tune of _family-family-family._

The Gallagher hand-me-downs scattered around their apartment were just another reminder that Mickey was becoming domesticated, that he had found some sort of belonging, and for all of his usual bluster and shows of resistance, he fucking liked it.

Mandy finally came away from the fridge with a bottle of blue Gatorade, tossing the cap unceremoniously on the counter and taking a huge swig before Mickey could get out a word of protest.

“Bitch that’s mine!” he cried belatedly.

Mandy made a show of wiping the excess from her lips with the back of her hand and held the bottle out to her brother.

“Mmm, want it?”

Mickey rolled his eyes and turned to grab a box of cornflakes from the cupboard for Yev’s breakfast. “After your skanky ass mouth was all over it? No fucking thanks. Have at it.”

Mandy hopped up on the counter with a self-satisfied grin, watching as Mickey poured out the cereal into an orange, fish-shaped bowl and dug around in the drying rack next to the overflowing sink for a clean spoon.

“Svet had a date or some shit last night so she asked me to take him for a couple hours,” she said, answering Mickey’s previous question. ”Guess the ho got lucky cause she called to say she wouldn’t be home till morning,” Mandy sneered with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “But I owed her one and she cashed in,” she shrugged, taking another sip of her pilfered drink.

Mickey simply grunted his acknowledgement before placing the bowl of cereal in front of Yev’s usual spot at the table. “Come on kiddo, breakfast,” he said, calling him over. “No thanks to you, wench,” he added, turning to glare at his sister whose only response was a lazy, one-finger salute.

Mickey had just started to consider whether he was likely to get any more sleep that morning or if he should just bite the bullet now and put on a giant ass pot of coffee, when he felt a gentle tug on the leg of his pants.

“Papa, what’s this boy?”

Mickey looked down, surprised to see that his son hadn’t started digging into his cereal quite yet. Instead, Yev was standing there looking up at him quizzically, holding out the old Polaroid that always hung on their fridge but was usually hidden beneath a stack of bills, or Ian’s pill schedule, or the hoard of take-out menus from all their favorite restaurants.

Suddenly the weight of the day – _this day_ – was bearing down on Mickey’s shoulders, constricting the air within his lungs, causing his knees to feel like they were about to buckle. He didn’t know how long he stood there, unmoving, feeling like everything inside him was drying up and starting to crack, but then Mandy was there next to him, crouching down to take the picture from his son’s hand before enticing him over to the kitchen table with an impish smile. She threw a quick, knowing look in Mickey’s direction before instructing Yev to start in on his cereal and then launched into her story.

Mickey’s body seemed to take that as its cue to start functioning normally again, and he quickly grabbed his pack of smokes off the counter and escaped the short distance away to the couch. He considered throwing on the TV just to get lost in some trashy daytime show where hysterical women screamed at each other about their baby daddies while the audience hissed and booed and cheered on cue, but found he didn’t really want to drown out the voices coming from the kitchen. Not today, _this day_.

Mickey lit a cigarette and settled back on the couch, blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling and letting the lilting sound of his sister’s voice and the occasional burst of Yevgeny’s giggles wash over him.

 _That picture_. Mickey, six years old, decked out in an oversized baseball helmet, wielding a deadly bat and a put on scowl – Mandy loved telling the story behind that fucking picture, or at least her own adapted version of it.

Mickey’s memory of the day was a bit different. Not so cute. Certainly not as funny. Just another shit day in a series of shit days that made up his childhood. But with those shit days came a small saving grace, if only for a short time. A beacon of light that broke through the darkness, that before Ian, he had only associated with one other person— his mother. When his Ma was around, from as far back as he could remember all the way up until right before the end, when her own light had started to dim, she was that beacon. So maybe it wasn’t all shit.

Mickey took another long, soothing drag on his cigarette, closed his eyes, and let Mandy’s voice fade as he thought back to that day.

* * *

_Mickey was young. Not so young that he didn’t know how to swing and catch and throw, but still too young to play three outs, nine innings. He was clever though, for his age. Smart enough to bide his time that spring until the night his big brother came home after his first stint in juvie and their dad was in an uncharacteristically good mood. That’s when Mickey struck. By the time Terry had come down from all the molly and booze two days later the money was already spent and Mickey was registered as a Southside Rookie, a team cobbled together from all those kids awkwardly straddling the age between the kiddies still playing t-ball and the grade schoolers who’d already advanced to little league. Really it was just an excuse for the parents in the neighborhood to get together, drink, and have someone else be responsible for their kids for a few hours a week, but Mickey didn’t care._

_Mickey loved baseball._

_Anytime the game was on at home it meant there was a better chance that Dad was yelling at the TV and not at him or his mom or his brothers or sister. Terry would sit in his reclining chair and let Mickey watch with him, would talk to him in-between plays as if he might actually give a shit about what Mickey had to say, even encourage him to take sips from his beer on occasion. And Mickey loved it because it was one of the few times he felt like this was how it should be. Ma cooking dinner in the background, swaying her hips around the kitchen and singing along to the radio, letting Dad grab at her side or hit her butt almost playfully whenever she came out to refresh his beer. Mandy lying on her stomach coloring, a rainbow of broken crayons spread out around her on the floor. All his older brothers crowded together on the sagging couch, Iggy and Tony rooting for the Sox and Colin and Jamie cheering for the other team just to piss everyone off. It almost passed for normal. Almost. Until the Sox started losing and Dad had one too many beers and Ma would fumble with a dish or Mandy would cry and the radio was suddenly too goddamn loud and when the hell was dinner going to be fucking ready!?_

_Mickey always loved baseball until he hated it. And this particular day was no exception._

_Summer was already almost spent the first time his dad decided to show up at one of his games. Whether because Ma had finally worn him down, or out of a sudden rush of genuine fatherly interest, or just because he had already run out of beer at home and had nothing else better to do, Mickey didn’t know. But there he was, minutes before the game was set to start, lumbering across the field to where Mickey stood posing in his uniform, waiting for Ma to snap a picture to commemorate the beginning of playoffs._

_“You’re holdin’ that thing like a fuckin’ fag,” he barked, startling the smile right off of Mickey’s face. “Gotta choke up. Hold it like a fucking man. It’s a goddamn bat, not your little limp dick.”_

_Mickey felt an immediate hot, burning flush spread across his cheeks, and his eyes darted around to see which of his teammates might have been within hearing distance. His grip on the bat slackened even as he tried to steel himself for whatever came out of Terry’s mouth next, but his dad just continued past without so much as another glance in Mickey’s direction, wandering over to the wooden bleachers where several other parents were already seated._

_Mickey looked up at his mom, eyes filled with uncertainty, but she just shook her head softly, in that way she sometimes did, a small smile lifting just the corners of her mouth._

_“Come on my Mikhailo, give me your fiercest look.”_

**_Snap_ **

_The game started without further incident but Mickey was distracted. He couldn’t stop his eyes from searching out his dad in the stands every few minutes. Terry had abandoned Mandy and his Ma early on to sit with someone he knew from the block – Mickey wasn’t even sure the guy had a kid on the team – and with every inning that passed their voices got louder and more aggressive, easily rising above the cheers and chatter of the other spectators._

_Mickey always loved baseball until he hated it. Until Terry’s jeers drowned out everything else. Until he overheard Coach asking one of the other dads who belonged to the drunken Nazi asshole and the blush of shame on Mickey’s cheeks gave him away. Until the next inning, until Mickey was up at bat, until the ump made that particularly bad call._

_“Open your fucking eyes Ump!” Terry jumped from his seat and shook the fence behind home plate. “Oh ho! A goddamn yellow slope! No wonder he can’t make a single fucking call!” he laughed cruelly, turning to the now mostly silent crowd to look for support. “Go back to your rice fields you fucking chink and leave baseball to us blue-blooded Americans!”_

_It didn’t matter that this was barely a real baseball game. Didn’t matter that the stands were filled with small kids and moms and dads sharing PB and J’s and juice boxes and secret six packs. That it was barely two in the afternoon on a Sunday and families were just trying to watch their boys run the fucking bases. That playing ball was one of the few times that Mickey felt almost normal. It didn’t matter._

_Terry changed all of that. Like an indestructible element, a meteor hurtling through space, his mere presence, the nasty words he threw like stones, began disrupting the delicate balance of life from the moment he tore violently through the earth’s atmosphere until that final extinction-level event._

_Mickey’s heart sped up, his whole body burning with embarrassment, anger…pure fire. The heat that rushed through his veins and up to his face had nothing to do with the bad call or that his team was losing. No, it was because of that indestructible element screaming and shaking the fence, ruining everyone’s Sunday and making everything so loud. And ugly. And burning._

_Mickey loved baseball until he hated it._

_The anxiety that had been building and creeping and threatening to burn a hole straight through Mickey’s chest all game suddenly exploded forth from his body in a burst of aggression. With a curse that had no right coming out of a mouth that young, Mickey took everything he had and swung the bat in his hands with all his might, taking in and expelling every glare and every spat out, profane word that was still falling from his dad’s lips. Mickey soaked in that hatred and ugliness coming off Terry in waves and swung the bat right up into the ump’s masked face._

_The power and suddenness of the hit threw the ump off guard and he tumbled back, feet flying right out from under him so that he ended up flat out on his back with the wind knocked from his lungs. To see a grown man laid out in the dust like that by a small child would have almost been funny if not for the severity of the violence and the ugliness of Terry. Instead of laughter there were only gasps from the mothers and “hey hey’s” from the fathers and wailing from the young kids who were lucky enough not to have to witness such bullshit on a daily basis._

_Everything after that was a bit of a blur. The base ump running in from third screaming himself hoarse for Terry to get the fuck out of there and to take his punk-ass kid with him. Terry yelling threats, spewing more hate, before finally grabbing Mickey by the scruff of the neck and dragging him away. Ma following quietly behind, Mandy in her arms, head down._

_Mickey loved baseball until he hated it. Until the illusion of normalcy was shattered and the harsh reality came back to hit him square in the gut. Those little few moments when it was seemingly ok – when he caught the pop fly or high fived with his team or was sandwiched between his cheering brothers on the couch – that was all make pretend. It wasn’t real. A broken dish, another black eye, like a fuckin’ fag – this was real._

_When they got home, Terry shoved Mickey around the side of the house so hard he slid across the cracked sidewalk, the broken cement tearing out the knees of his uniform and small rocks gouging into the exposed skin of his hands and elbows and cheek. The poisoned words spilling off his dad’s tongue were as ugly as before but they weren’t making a whole lot of sense. Didn’t even seem to have a whole lot to do with him. But his eyes were fixed on Mickey and he wasn’t stopping._

_He stalked Mickey into the backyard. Cornered him and pinned Mickey’s small body beneath his. Used a calloused palm to force his face down to the ground. Mickey could feel the rough asphalt biting painfully into his cheek. He could smell the sourness of Terry’s breath, could feel its sticky warmth on his neck, and as his dad continued to pour hate from his mouth directly into Mickey’s ear, the fat tears that had been threatening beneath the surface all afternoon finally leaked from the corners of Mickey’s eyes._

_He could just make out Mandy’s own tearstained face in the window, told by Ma to stay inside, to go to her room, to lock the door, to stay away_. _And he could hear Ma somewhere behind him using her soothing words, trying to get Terry away from him, to get him back into the house._

_In the end, with his face still pressed to the ground and the stream of Terry’s abuse filling his ear, Mickey couldn’t really be sure what she’d finally said or done to make it stop._

_When he was able to lift his head up again it was just in time to see his mom falling to her knees, the old Polaroid camera smashed to pieces beside her. To hear the sound of his dad slamming the chain link gate behind him as he stormed out of the yard and toward whatever shithole he ended up parking his ass at for the next two days. Then stillness. Nothing but the deafening silence that follows impact. The meteor. Extinction-level event._

_As soon as he could, Mickey crawled over to his mom, but just as he reached her she got quickly to her feet, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes to hold back any tears that would dare come out. She took a deep breath, brushed herself off, and only then knelt back down to be eye level with Mickey._

_“My sweet, little Mikhailo.” Her dark blue eyes seemed to take in every inch of his face as she swept back the hair off his forehead and gently ran her fingers across his injured cheek, brushing away the dirt and rubble. She took both his hands in hers, kissed him lightly on the nose, and pressed her forehead against his. “My sweet baby boy.”_

* * *

Mickey took a final haul on his cigarette and tried to fight off the burn in his chest. He heard Mandy and Yev laughing as his sister finished recounting her version of ‘the time Papa hit the ump in the face and made him go spinning through the air.’ He opened his eyes and looked over at her in the kitchen, leaning forward at the table to put her eye level with Yev, looking so much like their Ma it was fucking scary.

She was still holding onto the old Polaroid and Mickey knew she was about to do what she always did whenever she finished her story. She rubbed her fingers over the bottom of the picture where their mom had scribbled a short inscription, and said without any hint of malice, “Mickey was always her favorite.” Then with her small half smile, as if just remembering her audience, she added with a wink to Yev, “Your Papa.”

At those last words, Mickey stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and cleared the lump from his throat as he rejoined his family in the kitchen. “Alright, alright, enough of that story. You’re making me look like an asshole.”

“Calm your tits Mick, it’s a cute story. And it’s the perfect day to tell it.”

Mickey didn’t say anything. He just grabbed his son’s now empty bowl and carried it over to the sink.

“What day is it Auntie?” Yev was looking up at Mandy with wide, curious eyes.

“It’s our Ma’s birthday, bud.”

“Ooooo, are we going to have cake and ice cream? I like cake and ice cream! Can I help blow out candles??” The excited boy was jumping up and down now.

Mickey turned from the sink and dried his hands on Ian’s baggy sweats. He knelt down and pulled his son toward him so he was sure he had his attention. “Not today, Yev. Our Ma isn’t around anymore, remember? We’ve talked about this.”

“Oooooh yeeeeeah. I forgot. But I still like cake and ice cream!” And with a big, innocent smile that caused a bittersweet tug in Mickey’s chest, Yevgeny pulled out of Mickey’s grasp and ran over to the piles of toys he had stashed around the living room.

Mickey stood up slowly and sighed softly as he turned his attention back to the sink full of dishes. For the next several minutes the silence in the kitchen was broken only by the sound of Mickey running water and the occasional muffled crash coming from the living room as Yevgeny sent another of his Hot Wheels careening off the end of the coffee table. Then,

“Mick?”

“Hmm.” Mickey didn’t turn to look at his sister, couldn’t just then, and Mandy didn’t push. But she stood up from the table and wandered closer, throwing her empty Gatorade bottle in the trash.

“We still on for tonight?”

“It’s fucking tradition ain’t it?” he answered gruffly. Then more softly, “It’s her birthday, Mands.”

“Ian coming this time?”

Mickey exhaled heavily and kept washing the dishes.

“Mick…you should ask him. Invite him this time. He’d never butt in but you know he’s dying to be there for you.”

Mickey pretended to be thoroughly engrossed by the pan he was scrubbing.

“You should let him.”

More feverish scouring.

“Mickey?”

“Jesus Christ Mandy!” He threw the useless sponge into the water and finally turned around to face his sister. “Yes, yes I’ll fucking ask him, ok? Happy?” His eyebrows danced furiously around his face. “Now are you gonna be hanging around here all morning asking me stupid fucking questions or can I go the fuck back to sleep now?”

Mandy just rolled her eyes at the theatrics, entirely unfazed. “Christ Mickey, yeah. Go get your beauty sleep you fucking ogre.” She raised her voice slightly as she grabbed her coat off the counter, “We’re going Yevvy. Come give your douchebag daddy a hug.”

Yevgeny came barreling in from the other room and threw himself at Mickey’s legs with the same fierceness as before. Mickey dropped a kiss on the top of the head and began waddling them awkwardly toward the front door. “See ya tomorrow, Monkey,” he laughed, finally managing to detach his son’s hands from around his knees. “We’ll play with the new handcuffs I lifted from Ian’s idiot friend,” he promised with a wink. “See you tonight,” he nodded at Mandy. “And make sure fucking shit for brains brings the good stuff. We ain’t cheapin’ out on Ma’s birthday.”

Mandy responded with a distracted wave of her hand in Mickey’s general direction and then took off after an already running Yevgeny. Mickey could hear the loud thump of their winter boots and his son’s excited squeals as they raced down the hall even after the door had closed behind them.

Now in the ensuing silence, the weight of the day – _this day –_ began to bear down on him again. Mickey quickly decided that the dishes he had started on could wait till later. Right then all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and wrap his body around Ian’s pillow like a vice until his freckled redhead got home and he could wrap his arms around the real thing.

He was already loosening the drawstring on Ian’s sweats and heading back to their bedroom when he noticed the weathered picture of him still sitting out on the table where Mandy had left it. He paused for a moment, then picked it up and walked it over to the fridge. He tossed last month’s electric bill and some old receipts in order to clear a space for the picture amongst all the clutter, and then secured it to the door with one of Yevgeny’s lettered magnets. Mickey gingerly traced his mother’s words with the edge of his thumb and then turned abruptly and headed back to bed, not sure that he was entirely ready to give Ian another broken piece of himself, but finding that he really wanted to. 


End file.
